The Chronicles of The Suited Man
by Ghirajora
Summary: After the recent events involving Khan's superhuman army, things are finally beginning to calm down for most. But things go all wrong when Chekov counts only 71 of the 72 sleeping criminals. Bad turns to worse as paranoia begins to take over and he begins to have encounters with a mysterious 'Suited Man'. Does he exist or is Pavel just a mad man? -Just for fun, by me and my friend-
1. Chapter 1

_Okay, here's the first installment of The Chronicles of The Suited Man, a Star Trek fanfiction me and a friend are co-writing because we got bored. It is centred around Pavel Chekov from The Original Series, and as well as many TOS characters it also crosses over with Deep Space Nine and a few other surprising things later on... Do enjoy- this is merely something fun we do and we do not take it entirely seriously. We do not own Star Trek The Original Series or Deep Space Nine, but The Suited Man is our character._

_I hope you like reading it as much as we like writing it- and I'm sorry about the first chapter, I hate first chapters._

"The worst thing about a mad man is that he never questions his sanity."  
*****

On the USS Enterprise things were finally beginning to calm down, which was a natural call for disaster and panic. Earlier that particular day, Pavel Andreievich Chekov had been counting up Khan's frozen army when he realised something strange.

"Shestdesyat'devyat', 'semdesyat, 'semdesyat'a'deen, 'semdesyat'dva- [1]" He had just been counting aloud in his native language, as he often did as a habit, but he paused when it occurred to him that there was in fact, no 'seventy-two'.

After blinking in innocent confusion, he re-counted and to his dismay, he got to seventy-one and stopped again. There _were_ meant to be seventy-two, weren't there?

Before doing what one would naturally do when a super human might be out wandering around with intent to kill you- namely panicking- he had decided to consult some of the others about it.

"So is seventy two, da?" he asked Spock, feigning his calmness. The Vulcan looked down at Chekov with an eyebrow slightly raised in mild cynicism and nodded.

"Yes, is there some problem?" he had replied.

"Oh! N-nyte! Everything is okay!" The naïve yet highly talented Russian lied in response, "I was just checking! Dosvidanya Spock!" he hurriedly finished before dashing off to count for a third time, only to get the same outcome.

Now, around four o'clock in the afternoon, The Captain and Spock were deep in discussion about the situation that had previously been in and were currently recovering from, and the subject of the crew's performance became part of it. When the topic of our resident Russian lieutenant and navigator arose, Spock seemed to frown a little.

"Yes, he has been acting strangely today though." He brought this subject to attention with the ghost of concern in his eyes. Kirk nodded.

"Well that was probably why he called ill this afternoon. I'm sure it is nothing serious though, he's tough, he'll be better by tomorrow." The Captain reasoned optimistically. Oh, if only he knew how wrong he had been.

It was true that Chekov had been given the afternoon off, with an excuse of being ill. He felt a permanent fear mask his mind and begin to let his judgement slip as he thought of the silhouette once more. The man he saw leaving the room after Chekov had counted again and again in a futile attempt to put his mind at ease. He hadn't seen the man after that, and he hadn't caught a glimpse of the escapee's face, but he had taken note of the beige tailor-made suit the mysterious figure had been wearing. He must have been one of Khan's lot, yes... Yes, that must be it, number seventy-two...

The poor young man crawled into his bunk and slid under the covers but kept his eyes fixed on one point of the room, as if he were utterly fascinated by it. His unmoving, mesmerized state could only be described as catatonic, and a shiver ran down his spine as he once again recalled the suited man...

[1] This is how you count in Russian from Sixty Nine to Seventy Two- phonetically, because writing the characters would be pretty pointless.


	2. Chapter 2

_Please tell me about any typos I've made, by the way! I've done my best to go through it and correct it all but there might still be the odd spelling mistake or use of the wrong there/their/they're. Thanks! ~Ghirajora_

"Look, Chekov, there is no one on this ship who isn't supposed to be here!" Sulu grinned, "Okay?" Chekov nodded, but a cold slither of fear still chilled the back of his mind.

"Well, if you're happy that there's no 'Suited Man' following you, I'll go back to bed." Sulu patted his friend on the back, then heaved himself up from the end of Chekov's bed then clambered up the ladder to return to his own.

It had been midnight when the hairs on the back of his neck had risen, and the feeling of cold dread had passed through his subconscious mind, jolting him awake just in time to hear Chekov yell out in fear, and the rustle of fabric followed by the spine chilling sound of running footsteps. It had taken almost an hour to console poor Chekov who was too traumatised to do anything but tremble, and then another hour for him to gather his thoughts and tell Sulu the entire story- start to finish.

According the Chekov, one of Khan's super human crew had escaped from his exiled slumber and was running wild over the huge ship. Although at first the circumstances of the trauma were believable, as Chekov told his tale of only counting 71 of the sleeping maniacs yesterday, Sulu had had to try hard not to laugh at the crazy tale, before again returning to consolation.

He had then gone back to bed where he tried his hardest to fall back to sleep again.

Chekov, on the other hand, pulled his blanket right over his head and finally forced himself to stop the trembling. As the minutes slowly turned to hours, which ticked away in deafening silence, no signs of the suited man returned.

By morning, both of the bunk-sharers had dark bags under their tired eyes. Breakfast wasn't too bad for them, that was, until he glanced over to the Captain's table- where Kirk and Spock were eating pancakes- only to see the silhouette a tall, thin man wearing a strange hat cast over the oblivious breakfast-goers.

Although in time, Pavel's reputation of being perfectly sane would one day return; due to the events that took place that fateful breakfast time, the poor boy was marked with the reputation of a mad man. Apparently, throwing yourself over the Captain and the First Officer in an attempt to protect them from the wrath of the Suited Man, after only glancing at the distorted shadow of Uhura, was not the right thing to do.

And so the mystery continued… Was there really a Suited Man?


	3. Chapter 3

A few days had passed. Doctor Leonard 'Bones' McCoy sadly glanced over at his patient, Chekov, who was under heavy sedation. For the size of the fellow it had taken a worryingly large dose of tranquillizer to actually knock the stubborn man out of consciousness. Now he had regained his sane, angelically innocent face as he slept in peace for the first time in days. It felt like a thousand proverbial knives through the heart to see him in the mentally distraught state that he was in previously. Who was this 'Suited Man'? It was the worst case of post-traumatic stress disorder he'd ever heard of. But was that really it? Or was it paranoia that had driven the young prodigy, so full of potential, to the total breakdown that fateful evening? Perhaps merely lack of sleep had lead to the painful experience? Or maybe it was just plain insanity lurking in his mind that had been kept at bay for so long but was now showing its true colours? For once in his life, McCoy did not know. He has utterly befuddled and unable to hide it either.

"You don't know, do you?" Kirk asked, his tone practically dripping with concern. McCoy shook his head in clueless defeat.

"No. I'm afraid not..."

Sulu sighed, lacking the ability to tear his eyes away from his friend. The bones in his right hand crushed while his knees and one arm were ridden with fragments of broken glass. The boy was so talented, some of his skill levels equalling even that of Spock. Though Chekov could be childish and was naïve, he was clever and helpful and always considerate too. Overall a delight to have on the ship. So what happened? Where did he stray from the path of sanity, and what drove him to?

_"Good evening, Chekov." The Suited Man appeared at the door, smirking although the brim of his fedora cast shadows over his enigmatic face. The Russian man did not expect to hear that voice and felt a sudden chill. That voice haunted him; it buzzed around in his head and clung to his mind day and night. How he hated that voice._

_Now a sleepless, nervous wreck, Chekov let his hand grab the first thing he could find- the glass of water on the desk- span around and hurled it at the seventy second super human. Said man dodged it with ease, a calm condescending smile adorning his face as he let it hit the wall and shatter into thousands of fragments that spread across the floor._

_"I'm sorry I can't stay longer," The Suited Man began politely, yet all the same in an amused tone, "But your friend heard that, and I don't want him to see me now, do I?" _

_It was as if- no, it was that the Suited Man was enjoying causing and watching Chekov's perpetual torment. He was just laughing at him. That was enough to send a pulse of loathing coursing through his veins, enough to make the poor boy well and truly snap. His fist hit the wall with a sickening crunch. Damn you, seventy two! Damn you and your super human powers! How could I miss?!_

_"I hate you!" he wailed, not daring to move his hand for fear of the pain that would surely increase tenfold. The Suited Man chuckled,_

_"You sure are a funny one." he laughed before disappearing once again._

_Chekov was left there all alone, breathing heavily, his stinging bloodshot eyes staring at the floor, not moving an inch until Sulu, who had heard the commotion, dashed into the room worriedly. Then the mad man finally sank to his knees, his shattered hand going limp and dropping to his side lifelessly while shards of glass began to dig into his skin, but he was too numb to feel it. He didn't care; only three words remained in his mind._

_"I hate you..." he whispered, his voice shaky, his slightly parted lips hardly moving, "I hate you, I hate you..."_


	4. Chapter 4

Chekov awoke in a cold sweat, a terrifyingly numb sensation enveloping his entire being; even his mind was blurry and unclear. Despite this he still managed to feel a chill crawl down his spine. The room was dimly lit, and only by the night sky outside the window- a pleasant dark navy scattered with millions of dots and blurs of every colour and shade; the thousands of relentlessly shining nebulae, galaxies, stars, moons, planets all forming the deep, dark, vast and all in all rather scary cosmos. Though the light was surely bigger and brighter than one could ever imagine, but such a distance separated them that it wasn't sufficient- you could only just see through the dark in the room.

Chekov stared up at the plain ceiling, unblinking, his eyes glazed over and out of focus. His memory was totally wiped.

As he began to wake up more, it occurred to him that he was not in fact in his room- this was sick bay. He blinked in all-too-innocent confusion and sat up to leave, the notion that he was actually injured did not pass through his mind at all. This was, of course, his downfall.

There was a sudden explosion of agony throughout his limbs, making his breath hitch as he suppressed a yelp of surprise and pain. The source of this being namely his left hand, he tried to move it and found the bones completely broken, possibly beyond repair. As for his other arm, and his legs, they were ridden with small cuts where once fragments of glass were digging into his skin- they all stung horribly. The numbness of both his body and his mind had disappeared, leaving him with atrocious memories. Especially memories of _him_; the insidious and intimidating silhouette of the Suited Man. That's right, he had appeared. Chekov had snapped, and hurled a glass at him. The Suited Man had laughed at his torment. The poor Russian felt a wave of loathing, he had wanted to hurt the man that was hurting him- as a matter of fact, he still did. Anyway, after number 72 had disappeared, Sulu had come running, called Bones and the last thing Chekov remembered was the cool, stinging but oddly pleasant sensation of an icy needle being slid into his neck, and the freezing sensation that seemed to flow through his body before blackness.

"That's right..." Pavel muttered, as he mustered up the strength to stand and then proceeded to pad across the room to the computer. Chekov was brilliant at many things, being the child prodigy that he was, and hacking just happened to be one of those things. Unfortunately for him- as if he hadn't had enough misfortune already- he was not ambidextrous and found accessing Bones' patient database when he could only swipe his right hand across the touch sensitive screen a slight challenge. However, he did manage, and soon he discovered his own name there. Hesitantly, he let his clumsy fingers run over the screen and open the file.

The light from the device illuminated the room, allowing a reflection of him to appear on the glass next to a projection of a photograph taken on his first day as a Starfleet officer. He couldn't help noticing the differences between then and now. On that day he had wide, nervous eyes and a bashful smile, looking far too young to be going on a mission like this, let alone as the navigator of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Now, as he stared sadly into his makeshift mirror, his eyes were duller, more tired but the emotion in them was far more terrified, as if that wasn't enough, they had dark bags beneath them signalling his lack of sleep. He looked older, more wary, but still his face held a childish innocence, that was one thing that hadn't changed. Down the side of the screen his personal info and qualifications were listed, but then his eyes met something new.

Condition: Undiagnosed. Possible post traumatic stress disorder, hallucination, paranoia, schizophrenia or

Chekov blinked, unable to read the next part without his breath audibly hitching.

insanity.

"I am not insane!" he protested to the empty room, although his voice felt a sudden weakness and no one would hear anyway as the sick bay, like most of the rooms in Enterprise- was soundproof. He stood there, frozen for a moment that felt like a lifetime, his mind buzzing with attempts to justify his behaviour. If only someone else could understand him, maybe if they'd seen what he'd seen- just a glimpse would be enough! But then again, it was probably the Suited Man's goal to make Chekov isolated from the rest of the crew who now deemed him a total lunatic- to make him alone in this dangerous world.

A familiar whooshing sound. Chekov rapidly turned around to face the origin of the sound where Hikaru Sulu was stood in the doorway through which the light of the corridor streamed into the room.

"You're awake..." was all he managed. Now that he was here, he was rather lost for words.

"I'm not insane." Chekov hastened to assure his friend defensively. Suddenly, in the presence of Sulu, he felt a harsh pang of loneliness and ran to embrace his visitor. When he was clinging slightly to his friend like a baby, inhaling that familiar Sulu scent that was exotic and pleasant, rather calming just because he knew someone was there. Human contact was so warm and welcoming. "You believe me right?" he asked, his voice and actions taking a childish and pleading form without him noticing, in a subconscious attempt to have Sulu back on his side. The third officer would have loved to say yes, but he would be lying. He silently shook his head, unable to respond properly. "Hikaru, please..." Chekov's face fell, the hope in his momentarily bright eyes shattering into despair. He looked down.

Before another action of persuasion or rejection could be made, the door opened again revealing Jim Kirk.

"There you are, Sulu!" He exclaimed, "We've been looking everywhere for you!" He paused for a moment, and took in the situation before him. His voice became more authoritative then, "Officer Sulu, we should leave. Spock was looking for you, and Mr. Chekov still has to recover-"

"But I'm fine!" The young navigator interrupted and retorted angrily. Kirk shook it off and looked to Sulu for an answer. Seeing this, Chekov stared up at him too. Sulu sighed, and gave the boy a quick hug before stepping back.

"I'm sorry, Pasha..." He murmured sympathetically, and then he and Kirk left. The door shut, cutting out the stream of light flooding the room, and leaving Chekov alone in darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

"Doctor Jones will see you now." A bored looking nurse wearing a pathetically fake smile declared as she opened the heavy door in the doctor's consultation room. The voices of his shipmates echoed through the young navigator's mind when he strode through the pale, dream-like waiting room.

"Whatever it is we'll get you sorted out, okay?" The Captain had told him, but Spock hadn't been so kind.

"Being haunted by a man in a suit is highly illogical. I suggest, Captain, that we send Mr. Chekov to the ship's psychiatrist."

Of course, Jim Kirk had agreed. When did he ever refuse his first officer's logical suggestions? But now, seconds before his consultation, the young navigation officer was more scared of whatever was haunting him than ever before.

Chekov had heard the whispers of the Enterprise crew as he passed them in the corridors and the laughter when he tripped over getting his breakfast, followed by the jibe of 'Not the Suited Man was it, Russian?' another eruption of laughter and ghost-like noises being called at him.

That was not the worst of it, there were the few that pitied him, and faked consolation, faked empathy with him. That felt even worse, the atrocious and vile combination of abuse and condescending comfort he was receiving made him feel isolated, scared and stupid.

Maybe if they had seen what he'd seen, everything would be different. Maybe they'd understand his terror of darkness; empty rooms; the sound of footsteps; the few seconds while he closed his eyes in the shower to wash his face; even loud noises were causing to jump out of his skin every other minute.

McCoy had stepped in and booked his appointment before Chekov could protest, although he felt better knowing that at least a few people cared.

The nurse flashed him a pitiful smile and locked the door behind him once they were inside the doctor's office, trapping the three of them inside an impenetrable, sound proof room. It wasn't the doctor that scared Chekov, it was the man hidden behind the curtain- the shadow clambering into the air vent; the Suited Man.


End file.
